


Summit

by Altonym



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altonym/pseuds/Altonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caradoc confronts Anora in the hours following the end of the Fifth Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summit

Though the official celebrations had ended hours ago, Denerim still rang with celebration. Even from the walls of Fort Drakon, it was possible to pick out the individual waves of revelry, the hubbub of drunken carousing. Occasionally a loud cheer would erupt as a firework snaked over their heads, and then the drinking would begin again. It seemed a miracle there were any of the little dragons left in the entire city - the sound gave Anora a bloody headache.

Lights were on all over the city, lending it a sparkling, breathtaking facade even now, so late at night. She was here for the breeze, though, not the view. Her bones were stiff and her muscles were tired - there had been too much politicking. She wanted a bath and a bottle of wine. She wanted to talk to Soph. She wanted a break. _You were the genius who wanted to be Queen._  
  
She let herself back into the study. Her father would’ve approved of holding court in a castle, she thought. It was the sort of practical, hard-hitting thing he had been known for during his political career. She forced her brain around that poison thought - there was no time for it right now - and returned to her desk, scanning the papers she’d requested from the treasury.   
  
It told her Ferelden was broke. Civil war was not cheap, and it was purely destructive - there had been no acquisition, no profit, nothing that might be used to stretch over the loss. There was no gain in this war; it had truly been one of survival. Quite apart from the damage to infrastructure, to the tenuous criss-crossing roads of the Bannorn, to the northern trade routes, there were broken castles, ruined arlings, half a harvest’s crop gone via darkspawn or civil unrest. There would be starvation soon, if she was not careful and clever and all the things she had been taught to be.  
  
The whole situation bode dangerously in warding off Orlais - refusing help meant that in all the nations of the world, only Ferelden had been savaged. The combined military losses alone were catastrophic - were Orlais to invade, the Crown would have to rely on the northern forts and hope to hold the passes. It made no sense - had Orlesian help been accepted, Orlesian troops would have born intense losses instead. In a foreign land, it would be incumbent on them to obey their hosts. Anora would have placed the bastards on the front line, perhaps saved the elite troops for the defense of Denerim. The Orlesians had cavalry corps to speak of, they would bring battlemages. Perhaps the Blight would have truly been held back at Redcliffe.  
  
Anora had trouble directly blaming her father, but there was no doubt he had been...mistaken. His priorities had been - well, they had been wrong. She would go on where he had before, and she would do it to restore his now tarnished honour. Her regnal name would be Anora Theirin Mac Tir, Theirin arms would be quartered with Mac Tir arms, and if bloody Teagan wanted to object he could take a short jump off a long pier, frankly. She was Queen now.  
  
She drew herself up in her seat. The Dalish wanted a “brief meeting”. Unfortunately, she rather owed him a crown, which made it difficult to tell him to piss off. The little bastard had not hesitated to make his quiet leverage over her obvious, and she resented it - but there were reasons for keeping that one close. First, he was a hero. Her position as Queen was tenuous, particularly with no blood connection to the Theirin line in power, and she could use the association. Second, it would keep the elves off her back while she tried to juggle the demands of arl and bann. Third, he was evidently rather cost-effective. And Fourth, the quietest of all - they were siblings, in an odd sort of way. They understood one another.  
  
 _The prick._  
  
She nodded to Pevel, who went for the door. Anora adjusted her headpiece, aiming for a sense of ownership, a broad rule over the room. _Maker, I’m exhausted._   
  
When he entered, she glanced up from her papers, as if she’d been hard at work and he was merely a distraction. That was a talent she'd inherited from her father. She cleared her throat. “You asked for a meeting.”  
  
“I did.” Caradoc’s face shifted slightly. Anora found it difficult to read his expression under all that....ink. One side of his face was covered in blue, an almost solid block punctuated by snaked lines of exposed skin that described the form of the right half of a design - a stylised tree. On the other side, the majority of the skin was bare, with the other half of the tree inked in. It was a doubling effect, almost dualistic.   
  
Some Dalish custom, she gathered.  
  
“Well?” Her tone was impatient.  
  
“I wanted to give you a warning.” Caradoc never spoke loudly - it was unnerving, and Anora intended to copy it in her rule. It forced others to listen to you, to pay attention to your words. It was a subtle way of ensuring control, and she approved of it as much as she resented it. She felt some measure of advantage over him, for sussing out his trick.  
  
“A warning.” She looked him over appraisingly. No doubt this would be some Warden prattle about the constant threat of Blight. More troops, more funding, end of the world, blah blah blah. The thing was, a Blight was always a rather distant affair. Another shifting in the big cogs that ran silently underneath the world. Anora was a politician at heart, and politicians dealt with the little cogs, the million different shifting parts that kept the bloody thing running. Nothing you can do about the big cogs if they’re not working - it means the whole system’s gone, why bother salvaging it? No...the hope was in the little cogs.  
  
“It would be best if you listened,” he said, and she detected some irritation in his tone. _Good_. The candles flickered on the wall as a faint gust lifted the fabric of the curtains almost imperceptibly.  
  
He brought himself back to a sense of calm, clearing his throat, and began. “I have already dethroned a King in my life. Another shem with another set of ideas...” - he scowled -  “ideas he no doubt in part passed down to you. I murdered that shem.” His face was set in stone, mutinous and murderous.   
  
She was suddenly very still, looking him directly in the eye. There was no doubt there.   
  
“He was slaver scum." Her jaw twitched, which he ignored. "As far as I can see, he had no use for Elvhen except as...assassins. As tools. As bits of leverage for money or support. Your father was as ambitious as you are, Queen Anora. And I killed him, close and intimate enough to feel his blood run over my hands.” Caradoc inhaled, very slowly, the tension in his jaw releasing visibly. “I don’t trust you all that much, Queen Anora” - he said it while emphasising the title - “I believe, however, that you’re smart.”  
  
He took a second, steadying himself, then continued. “The elves of Ferelden would make a better ally than an enemy, your Grace. And my allegiance is tied to theirs.”

They watched each other for a long time, Anora and Caradoc, across the thick oak table. Later on, Pevel would say to the other guardsmen that it was a standoff by gritted teeth, that it was adversarial, that he deduced there was a deep hatred between the two of them. Pevel was an idiot. The two rulers found in each other’s eyes an understanding, gentle and tentative and tenacious all at once, an agreement forged deeper than by treaty.  
  
The silence hung between them. It was the tickle of wind from outside that brought her to her senses.  
  
“Right.” It was clipped and matter-of-fact, and whatever sincerity had existed in her demeanour now vanished under a smooth, solid mask, marking the conclusion of this very brief meeting. “Well, Warden - Fereldan was built on the consensus of the Banns. There is a principle in that.” It was vague, diplomatic language, but Caradoc gave a brief nod.   
  
After he left, Queen Anora called for a bath. There was no peace at the end of a Blight.


End file.
